Season Five
by Jairissa
Summary: In the wake of an alien invasion, So You Think You Can Captcha is the world's favourite game show. Season Five features a cast of fun and familiar faces, all determined to prove they're not the alien in the house.
1. PreShow Introductions

**Pre-Show Introductions**

_Good Evening, Great Britain, and welcome to Season Five of So You Think You Can Captcha. For those who are new to the planet or enjoy repetition, I am your host Mycroft Holmes. Over the next eight weeks we will be exploring the latest in alien physiology and human psychology as we get to know our contestants, apply the latest in scientific theory and attempt to identify this year's ALIEN._

Now, on to our contestants. I'm _thrilled_, and yes, for those of you in the audience who are unaware of sarcasm I am being facetious, to announce that our first contender is none other than my brother, _**Sherlock Holmes**_.

Yes, yes, please stop gasping, it's not that unexpected.

I insist.

Thank you.

If I may continue? My brother, _**Sherlock Holmes**_, is a consulting detective with New Scotland Yard. Mummy has assured me for years that he is, in fact, a human. I've yet to see any evidence of that myself, but in these things it's best to be safe, and I've submitted him myself to this show in hopes of discovering the truth.

Please ignore the news reports that call this retaliation for the blatant and wilful revelation of my entirely innocent ties to the British government. Lawsuits are currently being filed.

He is of above average intelligence and possesses, some would say, a supernatural ability to discover one's life story from a five minute meeting.

Secondly we have _**Dr John Watson**_, a former army doctor whose gunshot wound to the right shoulder has created a painful limp in his left leg.

Sherlock, do give the man his cane back. You're forbidden from interacting with your fellow contestants until you enter the flat. Now. Those security guards are armed, and you're well aware of how it feels to be tased. Thank goodness we had those legalized in the wake of the alien invasion, am I correct, viewers? I shall look the other way for a time should you want to hit him with it, Dr Watson.

Next we have one of the three female contestants for this season. Please, viewers don't be afraid to nominate the women in your life if you have the smallest suspicions of their origin. It's not a cruelty if they are, in fact, homo sapiens; if we allow fifty percent of our population to remain untested we are creating an opening for more of our extra-terrestrial assailants to find a place to hide.

A round of applause, if you will, for _**Dr Molly Hooper**_, a medical examiner currently employed at St Bartholomew's hospital. Should she be proven not to be this season's alien, Dr Hooper has been given permission to perform the world's first _alien autopsy_. The results could revolutionise next season should she be successful, so let's hope you are in fact human, shall we Molly?

We're lucky enough to have a third doctor, this season. A forensic specialist who also works for New Scotland Yard, and who appears to have been nominated by my brother due to his "inescapable stupidity and frankly suspicious hair", please welcome _**Dr Lawrence Anderson**_.

Ah. Oh dear. The next contestant also seems to have been nominated by my brother, as "only an alien could stand Anderson's ridiculousness for an extended period". We have _**Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade**_. Mr Lestrade joins us in the wake of an amicable divorce, and hopes to increase the awareness of alien crime in London.

Honestly, Sherlock, this show isn't a way to settle your personal vendettas. No, it isn't mine, either. Do shut up.

Ooh, another St Bartholomew's employee! Hello, _**Mr James Moriarty**_, who works in Information Technology; he also, apparently, owns his own business that dabbles in "a bit of this and that". My apologies, Jim. These cue cards just don't have room for all the relevant information. Jim has an intelligence that may well equal my brothers'; rather suspicious that we have two this season, isn't it, when such people approximate less than one percent of the population. He also teaches the occasional class at Cambridge, in physics. You are multitalented, aren't you?

Next, _**Ms Irene Adler**_, our second female. Ms Adler has few friends and no family, and all attempts to investigate her background have been met with resistance. She is currently employed…oh dear. Can I say this on television? Yes? As you wish. Ms Adler is a professional sex worker, specialising in "recreational scolding", and including clients such as…good grief, Ms Adler, I'm not perpetuating slander like that. The royal family would never…

Moving on.

Finally we have _**Mrs Katherine Hudson**_. Mrs Hudson is our only volunteer, and owns the townhouse in which we will be conducting this year's competition. She kindly allowed us to knock the barriers between three flats down to create one large house in which, for the next eight weeks, our eight contestants will be competing. Thank you Mrs Hudson.

Now, for the exciting part. As you are all either familiar or in dire need of knowing, at the end of each week the best testing contestant will be declared _officially human_. At this point they will have the choice of either exiting the house with £1000 pounds for each week they survived, or staying on and participating in the rest of the competition, for a chance to win £100 000!

To win the prize the human will need to make the _least_ number of incorrect guesses on the identity of the alien. Guess well, contestants! It doesn't matter if you guess correctly in the final week should you have guessed wrong every other. Be careful, be thoughtful, be safe!

Remember, audience, a further £100 000 is available for audience participation. Please visit our website for further details, and keep your phones handy for our weekly voting lines.

Most excitingly, is this year's prize for the alien! Should they manage to fool both our audience and our contestants, our alien will be entitled to a painless euthanasia before the autopsy. If they are discovered…please take a look at the left of our screen to see how the voting went this year:

_Beheading_: 43%

_Burned at the stake_: 29%

_Live autopsy_: 14%

_Drowning_: 8%

_Stoning_: 6%

That's right! This year the alien can look forward to a good, old fashioned beheading should they be discovered. That should be incentive to remain hidden, should it not?

Congratulations to all our contestants, it was lovely to meet you and we look forward to learning more as the next eight weeks progress. Please proceed in orderly file to the door to your right, where you will enter **221** **Baker Street** and begin Season Five of _So You Think You Can Captcha_!

This is Mycroft Holmes, saying goodbye to Great Britain for the next 24 hours.

_sigh_

And hopefully my brother for a great deal longer. What do you mean we're still on air?

***censored***.

Cut it. Now.

Were you surprised that Mycroft's brother is going into the house? #SYTYCC #Mycroft #Sherlock


	2. Week One: Day One

**Week One. 8 Housemates.**

_Day One: Monday_

6pm:

Molly is glad Mycroft didn't mention the truth of her secondment to the show: she had, in fact, applied herself, so very excited at the new legislation that decreed alien autopsies legal that she would be willing to do almost anything to be the first to perform one. She has been given permission, and Molly is utterly thrilled to know it, to perform the autopsy live on television if she can furnish undoubtable proof.

It all seems a bit silly now, really. She had been flush with the idea of furthering her professional knowledge and not thinking of what it all meant – the insides of things had always fascinated Molly, her own species and every other. Now she is trapped in a small townhouse with seven strangers and she hasn't the faintest idea what she's going to say to any of them. It's all so terrifying, and in retrospect she might have had better luck continuing with her previous plan, which was waiting until an alien came through her lab the old fashioned way and she would be able to perform the examination without anyone knowing.

Still, she's here now and Molly squares her shoulders in determination. She will not make a total fool of herself. That is all she can hope for now.

"Bit frightening, isn't it?" One of the doctors asks her. It is the shorter one, with the blond hair and the honest face. He has a half-smile on his face, inviting Molly to join him and she does, shyly. "John Watson."

"Molly Hooper," she says with a nervous giggle. She shakes his hand limply and nibbles a little on her lower lip as she eyes her flatmates. "Well Molly, really, we won't be using last names here, will we?"

"I'd prefer you used mine," the darker haired doctor interjects. "Anderson is fine."

"Yes, I'd go by Anderson if my name was Lawrence," Irene interjects. Molly shrinks a little; the confidence of the dominatrix (was that the right word?) makes Molly feel like the little mouse her father had always called her, and she finds herself quite unable to speak. "Cruel of your parents, wasn't it?"

"The cruelty was that they bred at all," Sherlock says from behind Molly, and she squeaks in surprise. He has snuck up on her, and she hates it when people do that. It doesn't give her time to prepare herself, to think of all the polite things she needs to say. He is tall, and as close as he is standing almost warm; Molly wraps her arms around herself to try and trap it a little closer to her skin. "They would have saved the world a lot of trouble if they'd used protection."

"Oh shut up," Anderson snaps. It's not the most original comeback Molly's heard. Even she might have been able to come up with something a little better than that.

"Original," Sherlock drawls and Molly ducks her head to hide a smile. She doesn't want to be mean to the people she hasn't yet come to know. After all, most of them are human, aren't they? She'll only be cutting one of them up. She looks around to try and find a distraction, focussing on a large, shiny object in a locked case.

"Oh, there's the sword!" She says with pleasure. Her companions look blank, and she wanders over to her discovery, looking it over with an untrained eye. "The one they'll use for the beheading. It's all a bit exciting, isn't it?"

"I voted for stoning," Irene says, trailing her fingers lightly over the reflection of the long piece of metal. She looks up at Molly suggestively as she speaks and Molly blushes furiously. "It has more atmosphere to it."

"I said the beheading," the greying inspector offers. He smiles, friendly and open, and Molly shakes his hand before she releases he'd offered it. "Seems more humane. Greg Lestrade, I don't mind which you pick, I answer to both of them."

"Molly," Molly murmurs, although she suspects everyone else has already memorised her details. Molly is hopeless with names, and she feels one step behind her housemates. It'll be days before she has it all sorted, and that's a bit of a worry; she knows names and words are one of the things that aliens have trouble with.

"It's all a bit barbaric to me," Mrs Hudson tuts, but there is a speculation in her eyes that makes Molly wonder if there's something behind the dizzy-looking expression. "I don't see why we can't all just get along."

"They infiltrate our bodies and slowly eat our brains, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock points out, but it lacks the sharpness he used on Anderson. "Hardly the best relationship, is it?"

"What would you know about relationships?" Anderson asks and Sherlock rolls his eyes theatrically.

"Enough to comprehend you're sleeping with Sergeant Donovon again," Sherlock says and Molly extricates herself to hide in the corner while the men begin to argue.

Do you think Anderson's right about Sherlock and relationships? #SYTYCC #Sherlock

8pm:

Greg supposes he should be more frustrated at being stuck in this house for eight weeks with a nutter, but Sherlock has done him a favour in a way. After the bust-up with Abby he's been sleeping in the sitting room; he was meant to find his own flat sometime this week, and this has negated any need for that, hasn't it? It won't do to let Sherlock know that. It'd just make the mad tosser even surer he's right about poking into Greg's life, which won't do.

Still, it's a nice break from murder for a while, and he could do with the prize money. He's got plans for it; a nice flat for himself, putting some money away for Carla and Ashley's future. Maybe even a nice holiday for the four of them, see if he and Abby might be able to work things out. Something nicer than he can afford on a Detective Inspector's salary.

"Better get used to it," Greg tells Molly. She doesn't seem reassured, and Greg's smile feels a little grim. "They can go on like that for hours."

"Oh," Molly withdraws a little more into her oversize jumper and Greg pats her softly on the shoulder. "They get a bit loud, don't they?"

"Sherlock's always been like that, dear," Mrs Hudson (Greg will never be able to call a woman who reminds him of his mother by her first name) butts into the conversation. "Always so opinionated. Has to have the last word."

"Arrogant sod," Anderson grumbles. He has been staking out the bedrooms for two hours, and Greg suspects he has commandeered the largest for himself. There's five of them between the eight contestants, and Greg would gladly hand both Carla and Ashley over to the producers if it means not having to share with Sherlock.

"Well, he does tend to be right," Mrs Hudson sniffs primly. "Clever boy, that one."

"I'm more than 'clever', Mrs Hudson," Sherlock appears from nowhere behind Greg, and Greg considers one of his newly learned karate moves, but it seems like overkill in the first day of the competition. "Any chance of something to eat?"

"Of course, Sherlock, I'll heat something up quickly," Mrs Hudson announces. Greg can't imagine what excites her so much about feeding Sherlock, but if it stops him having to eat his own cooking he'll gladly put his hand out for a free feed. "Suppose I'd better feed the lot of you while I'm at it, but it's just this once. I'm not your chef."

She announces this to the room at large. Molly nods avidly and John seems agreeable, but everyone else ignores her entirely. Jim and Irene have absconded somewhere, and the part of Greg that is not a gentleman is tempted to go take a peek. A muffled thump and a groan comes from somewhere above them. Greg forcibly restrains himself from following after Anderson when he darts for the staircase.

"Better go take a look," John mumbles to himself. He catches Greg looking at him, and a perplexed expression crosses his face before it crumbles into exasperation. "I'm not like that. I don't watch. I'm a doctor, someone might need patching up."

"Don't bother," Anderson grumbles as he wanders back into the room with a disappointed sigh. "The geek and the prostitute were comparing lingerie brands. His are more girly than hers."

"Anderson!" Greg snaps, momentarily forgetting that he's not in charge of anywhere here. "We need to get along with these people."

"Anderson lacks the social skills to pull off that trick," Sherlock announces, and Greg groans.

"Look who's talking," Anderson starts to yell and Greg grabs hold of his arm, forcibly separating the two. Across the room John appears to have done the same thing, with more success. Greg's not quite sure what the man has said, but Sherlock appears distracted, which is the best he can hope for right now.

"We have to get along with these people," Greg begins quietly. Anderson makes to protest and Greg puts up his hand, hoping that whatever authority he has earned in the field pays off now. "Eight weeks, Anderson. It seems like a lot, but it'll be over quicker than you think. Besides, if you didn't irritate him so much, neither of us would be here."

"Me?" Anderson splutters indignantly, and Greg sighs. He'd been offered a job in the government years ago, and while he isn't sure what it would have entailed, the pull it would have given him to get out of this would have been worth it to him at this point.

"Dinner's ready," Mrs Hudson trills, and Greg heads towards the distraction gratefully.

"Macaroni and cheese?" Anderson asks. He's gotten into one of his moods again, and now Greg's going to have to spend the night keeping him away from human contact to prevent having to investigate the murder of one of his own. He'll be complaining about everything for hours. "Couldn't we have something fancier for our first night?"

"Not your chef, dear," Mrs Hudson repeats and Greg quakes a little at the way she says idear/i. When he gets out he might need to check a little into the meek-looking lady's background.

"It looks lovely, Mrs Hudson," John says diplomatically. Greg hopes that he'll spill some of the pale yellow dinner on the horrid jumper he's wearing. Were those things still for sale?

Do you think knowing their housemates gives some of them an advantage? #SYTYCC #Anderson #Lestrade #Sherlock

10pm:

Irene has insisted on sharing a room with Molly, and it took half an hour of horribly embarrassed morgue attendant to make her agree to one of the rooms that contains two beds. Greg has corralled Anderson off into the basement room and it was agreed that Mrs Hudson should be allowed to keep her own. Jim, originally determined to share a room with Sherlock, has been assigned the smallest on his own as it is the only one that has a closet big enough to fit the large number of clothes he has brought.

That leaves John to share with Sherlock; thankfully there are two beds in this room, too, albeit of the single size he has not had to squeeze himself into since his first flat share at uni. He feels a great deal more sorry for Sherlock; the man's great height was not meant to be contained by a child-sized bed.

"Not a bad place," John muses to himself. It is on the top floor of the townhouse, in what was formerly 221B, and he can see himself being happy in a place like this. He's always liked being close to the hustle and bustle of London. "The sort of place I was looking for before my therapist sent me here."

"Not the type of thing you could afford on an army pension," Sherlock says from where he has flopped himself on the bed nearest the window.

"Did your brother tell you that?" John asks cheerfully. He suspects that Sherlock is a plant; he can't think of any reason why the brother of the host would be stuck on this season. Sherlock snorts and John looks up at him curiously.

"I don't need my brother to tell me things that are obvious," Sherlock scoffs. John raises his eyebrow as he carefully rests his cane against the side of his bed, pulling his favourite warm jumper over his head. It's one that Harry gave him when he got home, and the change of weather played havoc with his healing shoulder; it's soft, it keeps his wound warm and protected, and whenever he smells it he remembers the similar ones his mother used to knit for him.

"How's it obvious?" John asks. Changing into pyjamas is difficult, and most nights he's stopped bothering. Sitting heavily on the bed he undoes his jeans and shimmies them off his hip. He has left his unfolded pyjamas spread over his pillow, and he drops them to the floor so that he can yank his leg out of his jeans and into his pyjamas in the same smooth motion. He can't hold back a wince as the muscles in his leg contract, and the breath hisses through his teeth in a sigh.

"Former army doctor, clearly unemployed, with a psychosomatic limp and your therapist is the one who 'referred' you? She obviously thinks that even an injured doctor would easily get work, ignoring the glurge of them we've had since the invasion, they're worse than lawyers of late. You can't have a job, so army pension." Sherlock recites in a monotone. It is a party trick he has apparently done a thousand times before, but John is both awed and mystified. "You should fire her if you get out."

"If," John laughs, stroking his shoulder. The more he presses on it the more his leg aches, and he gives up before he can cry out; it's not worth healing if it's going to make a fool of him in front of his new housemates. "That's the important part, isn't it? That was amazing, by the way. What else can you tell about me?"

Sherlock eyes him and John tries to pull his most blank expression, the one he uses when he's about to fleece someone at the poker table. He looks like he's deciding something, and John takes the opportunity to stretch out on his bed. At his full length his feet hang over the edge, and he is sent back to his first days in army training, when the dormitory beds were barely longer than this.

"Show me your phone," Sherlock demands and John furrows his eyebrow.

"We weren't allowed to bring them in," John reminds him, and Sherlock smirks. From the pocket of his dressing gown he brings out the latest iPhone, the one John has been drooling over in shop windows for months. He's barely competent with technology, but he wants one of these more than he's wanted anything since he saved up for his first Nintendo. "Nice work. Still haven't got mine, sorry."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and John yawns. It hasn't been the longest day, but limping around on his cane tires him out more than sprinting through bullets in Afghanistan. For the first time, John feels truly old.

"By the end of the week I'll know everything," Sherlock promises, and John smiles as his eyes flicker closed.

"Good luck with that."

Who would you like to room with? #SYTYCC


End file.
